Flarn Manages
by Luthienn
Summary: In the fifth year of Crusade, a cure for the Drakh virus is miraculously found. But what previous events from Minbar's past have led to this miracle? Finally updated. Sorry for the delay.
1. Prologue: The Writing on the Wall

**FLARN MANAGES**

**by Luthienn**

**Fandom:** Babylon5/Crusade crossover

**Rating:** G – PG-13

**Genre:** Angst, Drama

**Series:** none

**Pairing:** Neroon/OFC, sort of, possible other pairings later.

**Disclaimer:** The Babylon 5 universe belongs to JMS. I'm just borrowing the characters for some fun. I promise to give them back relatively unharmed. Only the main character belongs to me – please don't use her without permission.

**Summary:** In the 5th year of _Crusade_, a cure for the Drakh virus is miraculously found. Posted in the B5 section because most of the events happen years before _Crusade_.

**Author's notes:** Obviously, the events of this story don't always match with the official Babylon 5/Crusade canon. This is an AU, based on the canon of the television series only. Please keep this important fact in mind when reading.

Characters not recognizable from Babylon 5 or Crusade are real life friends, getting a cameo. Except the names of the cardinals, actually. They are simply made up. And yes, Carmelite nuns actually do have names like that. It's one of the peculiarities of that order.

* * *

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**PROLOGUE: THE WRITING ON THE WALL**

**Earth, Rome, on the 12 March 2271**

It was 0730, CET, when Pope Bernadette II returned from morning services at the Carmelite sisters' small convent to her official quarters in the Vatican. For years upon years, these early morning visits had made her capable of going on with her daily work.

At first sight nobody would have guessed her high status in the Catholic Church. She was a medium-height, stocky woman, barely on the far side of the fifty-year-barrier, wore a simple black soutane (she liked to silence the protest of her cardinals against this custom of hers with the mock-annoyed remark that the proper, pope-y white one made her look fat) and round, old-fashioned glasses. All in all, she was rather unremarkable, to put it mildly.

With her smooth, reddish-brown hair twisted into a low bun on the nape of her neck, she didn't look any different than the other clergywomen that could be spotted time and again on the streets of Rome. And while female priests were still something of a rarity in the Catholic Church, even in the 23rd century (the Church being notoriously slow and hesitant with changes, even with the most crucial ones), people had slowly grown used to see them during the recent hundred years or so and didn't glare at them in disbelief any longer.

A certain degree of caution was undoubtedly required on Earth in these days. Mankind lived – if the mere existence could be called living at all – in the fifth year of the Drakh Plague, and despair had begun to overcome the whole planet. Doomsday cults like the Sacred Omega sect rose overnight and attracted people like a flame attracts moths. Suicide acts, mindlessly destructive actions, plunderings were the order of the day. And things were getting worse, with every passing day that ate away a small bit of what little hope for salvation people still had.

The Pope knew that, logically, she shouldn't be walking on the streets alone, unprotected – especially not in these early hours. She could have attended to service in San Pietro just as well. In fact, she was _supposed_ to celebrate the Holy Mass in San Pietro at ten o'clock. She was the Pope, after all, and people who filled the churches all over the world were looking up to her for strength, guidance and support.

Which was the exact reason why she needed these hours for herself, every morning. These were the hours she drew her strength from; from the psalms, sung by the Sisters of the Carmel in a manner that had not changed since the times of St. Teresa von Avila; from the soothing atmosphere of the Carmel, permeated by centuries of silence and meditation; from the power of unbroken tradition that seemed to keep those thick walls of the convent together, much stronger than mortar could have done.

And, of course, from the steadfast support and friendship of one Sister Teresa Benedicta a Cruce.

The Pope and the nun had known each other for decades. They had both come from Austria, a small and rather insignificant region in Middle-Europe, met through a mutual friend (who had died as one of the first victims of the Drakh Plague, just a few months ago), they both chose a life in a convent, so understanding had been formed early on between them.

Their lives, however, had developed very differently.

Katharina Spinner entered the Carmel in Austria and become Sister Teresa Benedicta a Cruce. Her life had been restrained to the convent from that day on.

Luise Schmitz couldn't follow the calling of her heart at once, as her family had opposed her plans violently. Thus she had first completed a degree in education and become a school teacher, since she needed to support her mother and grandparents. But she had never given up her original intention to live a life in the service of the Church and studied theology in the evening school

When she turned twenty-nine, she and her family finally found a compromise. She left school work and got ordained as a priest. This way, she was able to support her family and yet lead a life that was at least close to her original calling.

She had held small, insignificant positions for fourteen years, until – during the last year of the Earth-Minbari war – her predecessor, Pope Bernadette I, appointed her as the bishop of St. Pölten. It had been quite a shock for her, but the Pope had explained that the Church needed a great deal of rebuilding after the war (assumed there was anything left to rebuild), and that she needed people with a strong practical sense and a lot of experience in pastoral work to accomplish that.

Half a year later – the war had barely ended and Earth lay in ruin – Pope Bernadette I died, but not before naming her predecessor in front of the Conclave: the Bishop of Sankt Pölten. The cardinals had not been overjoyed by that choice, and it took them weeks of heated discussions to finally reach the decision, according to the wish of the late Pope.

Theoretically, they could have chosen someone else, of course. But the late Pope had sent her official declaration to ISN just before her death, and thus everyone knew whom _she_ had wanted as her successor. And while people usually didn't care much for the internal politics of the Catholic Church, as it had become just one of the many human religions during the recent centuries, the election of the Pope was still _news_; it would have cast a really bad light upon the cardinals, had they ignored the explicit wish of the late Pope. Especially as Bernadette I had been extremely well-respected, even outside of her Church. It was better to give in and hope that things would work out somehow.

Thus Bernadette II had been elected, and her first years upon the throne of Petrus were less than pleasant or easy. Her predecessor had been a nun of a contemplative order, a highly respected theologian and considered a saint. She was none of those things, and some high-ranking members of the clergy often treated her in an almost insulting manner. But unlike them, she had understood the reason of her predecessor's choice.

Bernadette I had been elected at the beginning of the Dilgar war because at times of war people needed strength and spiritual support. Due to her personal background, she had been able to provide that, and she had proved to be the rock in the storm during the Earth-Minbari war as well. But in the aftermath of war, for the hard and often dirty work of rebuilding, a different type of leader was needed. A leader experienced in the practical aspects of life, who could roll up her sleeves and do the actual work, if necessary.

Bernadette II had proved very successful in that sort of work.

She had managed to keep the Church together during President Clark's reign of terror and the Telepath Wars, providing help and asylum to those who were hunted, and she had mediated between the warring parties as well as she could. She was by no means a diplomat, but she had a strong common sense and something she called the BS-detector, when in the circle of her friends: she could see through lies and evasive maneuvers with an almost frightening clarity. Years spent among teenaged kids in upper primary school could develop that sense in a person.

Things had just begun to lighten up on Earth, when – seemingly out of nowhere – the Drakh Plague hit. This time it truly seemed that God had grown tired of mankind… or with Earth, at the very least.

"_Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin_(1)," she murmured absent-mindedly, entering her study.

It was hard to accept. She had hoped that, against all hope, a cure would be found in time. But time was running out quickly, and the first people had already begun to fall victim to the Drakh Plague. Medical scientists estimated that the population of Earth had about eight months left. Probably even less. This time, Armageddon truly seemed to have come.

The Pope sat down behind her desk, poured herself a cup of coffee from the ever-present thermos standing on a small, wheeled table on her right and checked her daily schedule. It was tight as always, but she welcomed it. Work was good. It helped her keeping her sanity. Being busy saved her from freaking out.

She began reading the reports that had come in during the night. It was _not_ pleasant reading stuff, but she needed to remain informed about how things were going in the various local churches.

Needless to say, things were _not_ going well. But she hadn't expected them to, so it was no big surprise.

"Computer," she said tiredly when she felt the urgent need of a break, "have there been any calls coming in during the last six hours?"

"You have had twenty-six calls during this time period," the artificial voice told her; she hated it, but it was still better than keeping her poor secretary awake at impossible hours. The woman was nine years her senior, after all, she should have been in retirement for years, but insisted on remaining in service, and the Pope was grateful for it. Without Judith's organizatory talents and excellent memory her office would have sunk into chaos years ago.

"List me the calls in chronological order," she said.

"Acknowledged," the computer replied. "Number one: a call from President Luchenko. Number two: a call from Cardinal Giotto. Number three: a call from the Pastoral Congregation, dispatched to Dr. Judith Block for further consideration. Number four: a call from Cardinal Ferrero, acknowledging your latest orders. Number five: a call from Cardinal Roché. Number six: a call from Reverend Dexter, dispatched to Dr. Judith Block. Number seven: a call from Cardinal Raffaello. Number eight: a private call from Reverend Henderson. Number nine: a call from Cardinal Grandoletti. Number ten: a call from Rabbi Leo Meyers, dispatched to Dr. Judith Block. Number eleven: a call from Brother Theo…"

"Stop. You mean _Brother Theo_? As in Brother Theo from Babylon 5?"

"Confirmed."

"Oh, good. Call Brother Theo back for me. Use a secure channel."

The computer gave a sound of acknowledgement and placed the call. A few moments later the round head of the old, bearded Trappist monk appeared on the viewscreen. Seeing the face of the Pope, Brother Theo grinned broadly.

"Your Holiness! What brings me the honour and pleasure of your call?

The Pope smiled back at him. They had known each other for longer than she cared to count, and Brother Theo knew perfectly well that he didn't need to give her the official title. One that she found way mismatched when it came to her person and thus disliked greatly. He did it to tease her, and for no other reason.

"Theo, my old friend, it's good to see you, too," she said. "How are you faring?"

"Reasonably well, save the small woes of advanced age," the old monk replied in good humour, as always. Then his expression sobered abruptly. "And how are things back home?"

"Bad," the Pope answered bluntly, "and getting worse. People are growing desperate here; small wonder, with a death warrant hanging above their heads. Crime rates are rising to unparalleled heights all over the planet. The pressure on us is growing, too. People are seeking support and guidance – which is the only positive side effect of this whole ugly mess. But I must admit, this was _not_ the way I'd hoped to fill our churches again."

"No, I guess not," Brother Theo's eyes saddened considerably. "I'm glad that at least you have Benedicta nearby."

"So am I, believe me," the Pope admitted thoughtfully.

As a rule, Carmelite nuns lived out their lives in the very same convent that they had joined in the first place. Reassignments were almost unheard-of. But when Bernadette II had been elected, Sister Teresa Benedicta a Cruce applied officially requested a transfer to the Carmel in Rome, in order to provide her old friend with some moral support. And one of the few advantages of being the Pope was that Bernadette II could grant that request within her own authority, without fighting with a dozen committees about it first.

"You called me a few days ago," Brother Theo picked up the thread of their conversation again. "I apologize for not answering earlier, but I wasn't on Babylon 5. I had been to Minbar, visiting the Sisters of Valeria – a most remarkable religious order. I bet Rabbi Meyers would be excited to learn about them… Forgive me; I seem to have become talkative at my old age. What did you want from me?"

The Pope took a deep breath. This wasn't going to be easy, but she had to persuade Brother Theo to accept her decision, and she had to manage it now. There might not be another opportunity.

"Listen carefully, Theo, for I don't know if I'm going to have the chance to repeat what I'm about to tell you now. The people on Earth have eight months left to live, tops. Probably even less."

"Is that certain?" Brother Theo asked, a little shocked. He, too, had hoped that the original estimate had been too pessimistic. The Pope nodded.

"I've just read the official report of the medical institutes. Unless, of course, a miracle happens and a cure will be found in that time, but I'm slowly losing hope in that. But the continuity of the office must _not_ be broken. So, in case I'm going to die in the near future, I have appointed you as my successor. Judy will be sending you the encoded documents about his decision within two days."

"_Me_?" now the old monk was clearly more than just a little shocked. "But I am not even ordained as a bishop."

"You are now," the Pope shrugged. "I signed the documents yesterday. Cardinal Ferrero, the only Conclave member not infected, will travel to Babylon 5 with two other bishops from Earth colonies to handle your ordination as soon as possible. We can't take any chances on this."

"But why me? Ferrero would be a much better choice."

"No, he wouldn't. Firstly, he is a jurist; a fine one, but not exactly a people's person. Secondly, he has Proxima 3 to consider. He is needed in his own diocese."

"Are you sure he agrees with you in this?"

"Quite sure. He agreed to support you with his considerable knowledge, but he said himself that he wouldn't make a good Pope, not in this crisis, when the Church is about to be limited to a few thousand people, scattered across a dozen colony planets and outposts."

"And _I would_?"

"Most certainly. You are the right person for the job, Theo – the _only_ person to stand up to these extraordinary demands. You have your brethren to support you. You'll have Ferrero to help you with the bureaucracy. You already have contacts to various alien religious leaders – and you live on an independent station, so that you can't be blackmailed into anything by the colonial governments." The Pope paused, staring at her old friend intently. "I count on you, Theo. The future of our Church is in your hands. Don't let me down. Please."

Brother Theo bowed his grey head in resignation. "I won't, Your Holiness. I give you my word."

"Good," the Pope smiled. "Maybe there _will_ be a wonder happening, just in time to spare you the horrors."

"I surely wish there would," Brother Theo said solemnly, "but things are not looking well. The _Excalibur_ has just returned to Babylon 5 for repairs, after a six-month-long deep space exploration trip…"

"And…?"

"So far, they have found nothing," the old monk sighed. "We are helping to analyse the data they have collected, of course; and there still is a small chance of finding something useful, but…"

The Pope nodded, suddenly feeling very tired. "I understand. Well, we have to face the fact that there may _not_ be a cure, after all. We might _like_ playing God, in fact, we seem to do it much too frequently, but in the end, we are _not_ God. We can hope for wonders, but we can't enforce them."

"Considering our history, this is probably the lesser evil," Brother Theo answered grimly, "even though I'm not looking forward to see that history end like this."

"Neither do I," the Pope sighed. "I have to go, Theo. There is much work to do, and I intend to do it, as long as I am able to. Keep me informed, will you?"

"Of course, Your Holiness. May I have your blessing?"

"You have always had it, and you'll always have, old friend," the Pope raised her hand to the traditional blessing, then she broke the connection. This particular conversation had been more painful that she had feared. She hadn't looked forward to load such a burden onto the shoulders of Brother Theo, but there was no other way.

"_Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin_," she muttered again, before returning to her work. "God has numbered the days of our kingdom and brought it to an end. We have been weighed in the balances and found wanting. Our kingdom is divided and given to the Shadows. Or the Drakh. What a pity. And I have hoped that this time we would actually learn from our mistakes. Obviously, we have tried God's patience one time too many."

TBC

(1) See: Daniel 5:25. With a few modifications, of course.


	2. Chapter 01: Acts of Sacrifice, Part 1

(Author's note: Minbari words used in this story are from John Hightower's Minbari dictionary – translations at the end.)

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**CHAPTER 1: A GREAT SACRIFICE**

Among the stars, far away from Minbar, the Grey Council cruiser Valen'tha glided silently through the darkness of space. The war was over, and the damage caused to the ship's hull by the fatal encounter with the humans had been repaired so well that only the barest trace was left. Many Minbari had died over the past two years, and there were few on board the _Valen'tha_(1) who had not lost a clan member or a friend, but the losses were small compared to those of the humans. Besides, warriors were heedless of their own lives in battle, and did not fear death. It was only now, several months after the Battle of the Line and the surrender order which followed, that Minbar was in danger of being torn apart.  
  
The Warrior caste obeyed the surrender order which had, after all, come directly from the Grey Council itself, but they did not do so happily. Resentment was growing all over Minbar, with the Warrior caste blaming the Religious for demanding a retreat so close to victory. Shai Alyt Sinoval, dead by his own hand rather than give the command to surrender, was spoken of as a hero. The Religious caste, in turn, called the Warriors barbarians and blamed them for involving all Minbari in genocide. For the first time in a thousand years, Minbar was close to civil war.  
  
In the council chambers of the _Valen'tha_, the Nine stood in their pillars of light. Although their grey _obran'ver_(2) robes had to be worn at all times while the Council was in session, the heavy hoods which covered each individual's face were not required, and would usually be worn only when an outsider was summoned to appear before them. Since the surrender order, however, the Nine had chosen to keep their faces hidden. This should have blurred the divisions between castes, and reminded each Satai they were serving all Minbari rather than their own clan. Instead, it only seemed to be making matters worse.  
  
Satai Hedronn, of the Warrior caste, had pulled back his hood earlier as the debate grew more heated. Now, he paced back and forth impatiently as he spoke, throwing each barbed comment at a different cloaked figure. "This _cannot_ be allowed to continue!" he roared. "You have all heard the reports of what is happening on Minbar, just as I have. Our people are turning against each other in their anger and grief. Is this what Dukhat's death has brought us to? A holy war that failed to avenge him, and a world descending into madness?"  
  
"No Minbari has killed another for a thousand years," another Satai replied; Hedronn recognised the voice of Rathenn, of the Religious caste. "Unless you believe the Warrior caste are prepared to change that?"  
  
"The Religious caste call them monsters and murderers," Hedronn snapped in response, "after the Warriors gave their lives for Minbar."  
  
"If they are as close as you say they are to declaring war on other Minbari, maybe the Religious caste are right."  
  
Hedronn spun around to face him, the very air itself seeming to come alive with fury. "You would _dare_ -"  
  
_"Enough!"_  
  
Both the arguing Satai fell silent, staring at the figure who had interrupted, and who now lifted her hood back from her head. As the chosen of Dukhat, Delenn's wisdom was unquestioned, but until this point she had not spoken in any of the discussions about what was happening on Minbar. "Enough," she said again, more softly. "Satai Hedronn is right. We must find a way to create peace between the Warriors and Religious."  
  
"And do you have any suggestions?" asked Satai Morann of the Warrior caste, anger mixing with concern in his voice. "The _Marka'ri Minsa_(3) can do nothing, it seems. The Religious caste will not listen. The Warrior caste will not listen."  
  
"Then we shall make them listen." Delenn half-turned to a fellow Religious Satai, still hooded, who nodded for her to continue. "In the time before Valen, when Minbari still fought and killed Minbari, wars would be ended when the winning clan gave a female to the ones who lost, as a symbol of life and hope. The Warrior caste feels wronged by the Religious, and the Warriors suffered most – although not _all_," she added pointedly to Hedronn – "of the deaths in our war with the humans. We will give them a female of the Religious caste, in marriage."  
  
Hedronn considered this, and the other Satai waited in silence. "I believe the Warrior caste would accept such a gesture," he said eventually, "if the correct individual could be found. And if we could find a Warrior of sufficient rank, who is respected by all clans, and who would consent."  
  
Morann nodded. "Alyt Neroon, of the _Ingata_," he said. "He fought well in the war against the humans, and while he obeyed the surrender order, he is highly thought of by all Warriors for stating his disapproval on many occasions since. If he was to be married to your Religious caste female, the Warrior caste would accept this as an attempt to make amends. Assuming he would agree to this, of course."  
  
"He will," Delenn answered, the tone of her voice making it clear that anything else was simply not a possibility. "If Shai Alyt Branmer requests this of him, he will obey, and I have no doubt that Branmer will do as I ask." She glanced once again at the still-hooded Satai standing beside her. "Satai Khadiri has searched our archives for a Religious caste female who would be suitable."  
  
Satai Khadiri, a tall woman whose intricately carved _dun'ri_(4) suggested Warrior caste heritage as well as her Religious caste origins, lifted back her own hood. "A thousand cycles ago, Valen foretold the birth of the Chosen One," she began, and even the Warrior caste Satai bowed their heads in respect at the words. "A child born to the Religious caste who would save us from our worst fear and greatest threat, who would carry the destiny of Minbar in her hands. The Sisters of Valeria have found her, and raised her in their temple."  
  
"The Chosen One?" Rathenn was trying to keep his voice calm, but all present could clearly hear his amazement. "She has been born to our people?"  
  
Satai Khadiri nodded, and the half-whispered exclamations of awe from the other Satai grew louder. Only Delenn, Hedronn noticed, did not seem impressed, and was frowning slightly as Khadiri described the intricate details of the prophecy which foretold the Chosen One's birth. It was not unusual, he supposed, for Religious to fight amongst themselves over the finer points of prophecy – but surely Delenn could not doubt the Chosen One? "The Warrior Caste will accept this," he said, making sure to look directly at Delenn as he spoke. "No Minbari would deny the importance of the Chosen One."  
  
Delenn sighed. "I do not doubt her importance," she said, "only whether the prophecy refers to this marriage. But Satai Khadiri has spent a lifetime studying the ancient scrolls, and I will abide by her interpretation."  
  
Anger flashed across Khadiri's face for the briefest of moments, and then was gone. "It is decided, then," she said. "Lúthienn of the Faithful Hearts shall marry Neroon of the Star Riders, for the good of our people. Satai Delenn will inform the Sisters of Valeria of this on our return to Minbar."  
  
The lights in the Council chamber blinked back to darkness. On Minbar, Lúthienn of the Faithful Hearts was sleeping peacefully, unaware that her destiny would so soon come upon her.  
  
**TBC**  
  
(1) - _Valen'tha_ – 'Valen's Fist', the Grey Council ship

(2) - _obran'ver_ – Outer robe

(3) -_ Marka'ri Minsa _– Council of Caste Elders

(4) - _dun'ri_ - Headbone


	3. Chapter 01: Acts of Sacrifice, Part 2

**FLARN MANAGES**

**by Luthienn**

For disclaimer, rating, etc, see the Prologue.

**Author's note:** The Minbari expressions are from Hightower's Minbari dictionary.

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**CHAPTER 1: ACTS OF SACRIFICE PART 2**

** Minbar, the city of Tuzanor, in the same cycle**

On the northern continent of Minbar stood the city of Tuzanor, also known as the City of Sorrows – a place as old as Minbari culture itself, full of traditions and secrets, some of them holy and some of them dark. Its history reached back to the beginning of the people, way before Valen, before even the caste system was established. Long before Yedor, the capital on the southern continent, was established, Tuzanor had been there. Yedor might have been called the Eternal City, but it was fairly new compared with Tuzanor.

Which was the very reason why the Temple of Valeria had stood here for uncounted millennia. The esoteric cult of wisdom and light, embodied in the mythic figure of Valeria, of whom not even the high priestesses knew if she had to be considered as a goddess, a preternatural creature or simply the personification of the divine powers that held the Universe together, predated the fairly young cult of Valen so far that it was impossible to tell how much older it was.

Still, the followers of Valeria – a group within the Religious Caste that refused to take part in any power struggles and deeply despised violence – had chosen to support Valen when he had come to aid the Minbari against the Old Enemy, the Shadows. How could they not? The Shadows were the exact opposite of whatever Valeria and her followers stood for. Everyone who helped them to drive out the Shadows of the Galaxy was an ally.

Thus they allowed Valen into the inner court of the Temple – according to tradition he had been one of the nine males ever to receive this honour – and taught him all that he had been able to learn. In exchange, Valen had shared with them his holy visions of the far future, which the Sisters of Valeria had written down and kept the scrolls locked away – until the fullness of time, when they had to be opened and their secrets shared with the chosen ones.

The Temple of Valeria stood in the oldest part of the city, way beyond the dazzling array of crystalline surfaces that was considered the centre of Tuzanor. The buildings, carved from the natural crystalline deposits of the planet, generally wore geometric shapes, most predominantly that of a triangle. To the Minbari, everything reflected the number three: the caste system, the mysterious Grey Council, their most sacred relics… even their architecture. All were evocative of "three".

The Temple of Valeria was no exception from this rule. It was perhaps the most imposing structure of the whole city: a structure of nine separate buildings, eight of them arranged in a hexagonal outline with three temples each on the longer sides and two each on the upper and lower peaks. A ninth building was adjoining the lower peak, as if it were some sort of anteroom, and all buildings were connected by arched corridors that had no windows to the outside. No outsiders had ever seen the inner courts and gardens – or the inner sanctum that was established above all other temples, just like the head of the Grey Council stood above the other nine Satai.

All these temples wore the names of the different aspects of Valeria; her "emanations", as the secret lore of the Sisters called it. There were not named on any of the modern languages – not even in Adronato, the Religious Caste language – but in the Sacred Tongue that no one but the anointed Sisters of Valeria still understood.

The first one on the lower peak was called Malkhut, the Knowledge, for knowledge was the way that led to the deeper mysteries. The second one on the lower peak was Yeshod, the Light, for through knowledge the way to light leads. The first one on the left was Hod, the Patience, and the first one on the right was Nezah, the Sacrifice, and these two led to the hidden inner temple in the middle of the court, the one called Tifreth, the Glory. From Patience on the left led the way to Din, the Power, and from Sacrifice on the right led the way to Khesed, the Mercy. Power again led to Binakh on the left, the Understanding, and Mercy on the right led to Chokhmah, the Wisdom. These two, finally, led to the upper peak and its crowning temple that bore the name of Kheter, which meant Enlightening in the Sacred Tongue, but also Crown.

It took ten cycles for a novice to pass through all these temples, living and serving a cycle in each and learning the ancient lore assigned to that particular temple. The buildings had arched walkways connecting them with each other, linearly either on the left or on the right side, and again one walkway each connected the twin buildings that balanced out each other on the two sides. Only Tifreth had a connection to each other temple, for Glory meant in the lore of the Sisters the summary of all Valeria's attributes. Consequently, this was the most important one of all temples, and only those who had gone through the other nine and reached Kheter on the end of the ninth cycle of their service were allowed to enter it.

* * *

Lúthienn from the Faithful Hearts – a small and rather insignificant clan of the Religious Caste – had nearly completed her cycle of studies in the Temple of Tifreth. Only thirty more days separated her from the inauguration ceremony, in which she would be irreversibly declared dead for the outside world and become a Sister of Valeria. Ten cycles would have been a long and arduous way for any novice, but hers was even more so than that of the others, for she was the Chosen One. Thus she had spent all her life in the Temple… well, almost.

She had barely reached the end of her first cycle, when the Sisters, alerted by an ancient prophecy Valen, began their search for the Chosen One – a female child born once in a thousand cycles. The instructions of the prophecy were clear enough, so that Master Draal found her rather easily. She was taken from her biological parents and brought to the Temple. As such thing was considered a great (and extremely rare) honour, her parents obeyed, of course, even though their hearts were breaking. They had met only once in the last fourteen cycles – when her parents brought her baby brother, Tannier, to the Temple, to receive the blessings of the Sisters.

Too little for a life in the convent yet, Lúthienn had spent the first five cycles in the common area of the Temple of Malkhut, with the other girls who had received their Calling or been sent there by their parents. But even then, her life had been different. She had not slept with the others in the dormitory but in a tiny cell all by herself. She had been tutored by Master Draal from a very tender age on, and when she fulfilled her sixth cycle, she was clad in the robes of a _Shai'mira_, a female acolyte (not that the Order of Valeria had male ones) and entered the Temple of Yeshod, never to leave the Order again.

From that moment on, her life had belonged to Valeria. Her unparalleled gift for musical harmony had been detected, and she served as a _Shai'mira_ for six cycles, walking through the Temples of Hod, Nezah, Din, Khesed and Binakh. As her voice was the sweetest and clearest that even the oldest Sisters had ever heard, she was chosen to sing the most sacred hymns during the ceremonies. She had content with this life and willing to live it out as a _Ch'aal_, a ceremony master. It was a honourable position and she found great delight in this kind of service.

Whenever she had mentioned this to _Sal'sataia_ Zhalenn(1), the superior of the Temple, the tall, willowy priestess had just smiled kindly and warned her that as a Chosen One, she might not have the chance to choose her own place in the Temple. She had not understood this cryptic answer – until the visions came

She had barely fulfilled her twelfth cycle and had just entered the Temple of Chokmah, when they first hit. It had caused a great upheaval in the Order, of course – how could it not? A young girl, with the sign of the Chosen One on her head, having visions about the death of Dukhat… it _was_ highly unsettling. And when shortly thereafter Dukhat was killed and the bloody war against the race called humans broke out, _Sal'sataia_ Zhalenn began to give her thoughtful looks, and ordered the eldest Sisters to search all ancient scrolls for more prophecies about the Chosen One.

The visions had never ceased since then. The Sisters tried to shield her from the outside world, but Lúthienn knew she would not be able to hide in the Temple forever. A Seer had duties towards her people. And a Chosen One had a destiny that she could not escape. Not that she would want to escape. Her life was service – to serve Valeria, the Temple and Minbar. The form of service might change. That which was important – to serve her people – always remained the same.

Completing her afternoon studies, Lúthienn left the library of Tifreth and stepped out onto the balcony to look upon the inner gardens. Their beauty always put her heart at ease, and right now she needed that small relief. She had been struggling with frightening visions of darkness and bloodshed for days by now, which was the more upsetting as the war against the humans had ended almost a year ago.

She gathered the wide folds of her white robes tighter around her and looked down onto the sunlit gardens. There was a small waterfall cascading down next to the arched, stained glass entrance of the Temple of Khesed, its water pouring into a small pond. It was an incredibly peaceful, soothing sound, and Lúthienn began to relax, when she discovered two white-clad women sitting on a bench next to the pond and talking in low voices.

One of them was _Sal'sataia_ Zhalenn, but the other didn't wear the sacral robes of the Temple. She wore the common white of the Religious Caste, and that surprised Lúthienn a little. Visitors were a rare thing here, as the Sisters led a solitary life, spent in silence and meditations, aside from the ceremonies. With the expectations of teaching the acolytes and the novices, they rarely even spoke to each other, in order to keep the serene atmosphere undisturbed. Family members were welcome to join the ceremonies in the Temple of Malkhut, but they were seldom allowed to enter the inner court or to speak to the Sisters – only in matters of great importance.

And yet now an outsider was visiting the Temple grounds. And not any outsider, at that. Although she had only been here once before, Satai Delenn was not unknown to the Sisters. Not only was she a renowned leader of the Religious Caste and the one who had brought the war against the humans to an end, she was also the daughter of _Sal'sataia_ Zhalenn. Which, of course, didn't mean that she would have been allowed to go in and out of the Temple as she pleased. So, why was she here now?

Lúthienn felt the dark clouds of foreboding blur her vision, despite the warm sunshine in the gardens. Was Satai Delenn here to ask for protection in the Temple? Was there truly another bloody war coming? Was the Temple still safe?

She could not stay there any longer. She fled the balcony, ran back into the Temple of Tifreth, back to her own small, bare cell and tried to find support in her meditations, to center herself. But not even fifteen cycles spent in rigorous exercises could bring her soul the peace that she had sought.

* * *

It wasn't until after the sunset ceremony that _Sal'sataia_ Zhalenn sent a young acolyte to her and asked for a private meeting. This was a most unusual request, and Lúthienn felt her chest tighten with anxiety. In all her years in the Temple, she had only met _Sal'sataia_ Zhalen privately about four times. She was only a _Dra'sa_(2), not even an anointed Sister, and _Sal'sataia_ Zhalen rarely spoke to anyone outside of tutoring anyway.

She was lead to the _Sal'sataia_'s office in the Temple of Malkuth – the only public area of the Temple grounds. It was less barren than the usual accommodations in the Temple, after all, it was used for the rare occasions when the _Sal'sataia_ had to meet outside visitors (usually Religious Caste leaders), and small adjustments for the outsiders' sake had been made. One could not expect dignitaries to kneel on a thin mat upon the cold stone floor while discussing important matters with the _Sal'sataia_.

Zhalenn looked up from her desk where she was studying some documents – official papers, from the look of them, not ancient scrolls of lore – and smiled. Her green eyes were wise and warm… and surprisingly tired, hiding a deep sadness that had not been there the day before.

"Ah, Lúthienn," she greeted her warmly, "good, you are already here. You can leave us, Dhaliri," she added, turning to her _Nial'sa_(3), "we won't need you anymore."

That surprised Lúthienn even more, and she started to become truly concerned. If _Sal'sataia_ Zhalenn didn't want her attendant present, the conversation would not be pleasant.

"Please, sit." Zhalenn gestured to a couch and waited for the astonished _Dra'sa_ to seat herself. They were alone in a small office, and Zhalenn knew there would be no purpose in formality now. Everything depended upon what she was about to say… and what Lúthienn might answer. This was something that needed to be done, and it was her assignment to persuade Lúthienn of the necessity of it.

Zhalenn studied her hands, for once not able to look at her favourite pupil. "I did not want this to happen, Lúthienn." She looked up at her in sorrow. "Please know this. I have done all I could to prevent this from happening, although I have known for some time that my efforts would likely fail. I still believe that this is a mistake, but my objections were rejected by the Grey Council itself."

Lúthienn couldn't think of an answer. She simply looked at the _Sal'sataia_, her heart growing heavy with nameless fear.

Zhalenn leaned back in her chair and took a steadying breath. "For a thousand cycles, Minbari have kept stability and order through the three castes, as you know. But ever since we ended our war against the humans, peace between the Warrior and the Religious Castes has been precarious at best."

Lúthienn nodded, starting to understand the pattern. "They are not taking kindly that they have been robbed from their victory, are they?"

"No, they are not," Zhalenn agreed. "Ever since Shai Alyt Sinoval took his own life out of protest and the _Trigati_ has vanished in deep space, hidden hostility has been festering between the two Castes. This has to end, or the Peace of Valen would be broken and chaos would break out across all Minbar. Thus the Grey Council has come to a decision – one that would cost our Order a great sacrifice."

Lúthienn gave no answer, just waited patiently for an explanation about what that sacrifice would be, and how it concerned her personally.

"It has been a time-honoured custom of our people that if a clan has been wronged by another one, a child from the clan which bore the fault would send a child to the wronged clan to marry one of their members," Zhalenn continued carefully. "And as the Warrior Caste feels that they were wronged by the Religious Caste, our only way seems to be to follow this ancient custom. But this time the wrongdoing seems too great to be balanced out by a simple _Nafak'cha_(4). This time, a greater sacrifice is required." She looked at Lúthienn steadfastly now. "I have no other choice, child. I shall have to set you free, so that you can marry Neroon from the Star Riders clan."

Lúthienn gazed at her in absolute horror. Leaving the Temple, where she had spent all her life? Giving up her Calling, her destiny, to marry a warrior responsible for uncounted deaths during the war? _Neroon_, of all people, him, who never failed to boast about how many humans he had killed? The Sisters of Valeria might have led a solitary life, but even they had followed the events of war, thus Lúthienn knew all too well how Neroon was.

He was a monster. A monster in the disguise of a Minbari. A monster that delighted in the massacring of a clearly inferior people. And she was supposed to marry _that_?

"It has to be, child," Zhalenn continued; being a telepath, she could read the troubled mind of the confused girl like an open scroll, "or else the war and bloodshed will come to Minbar, the next time."

"But why me?" Lúthienn whispered, devastated.

The _Sal'sataia_ sighed in defeat. "We are the most respected _Chu'minn_(5) on Minbar. Giving away one of our own would show that the Caste is serious about making amends. And you are the only one among us who has already reached _Nath'sa_(6) but hasn't been anointed yet."

Lúthienn was too numb with shock to feel anything. So, she wouldn't be inaugurated when the fullness of time comes. Thirty days only separated her from the last Rites. In thirty days, she would have been safe from the scheming of the _Del'Saezha_(7), safe from Neroon… But now all was lost. All she had prepared herself for, all she had studied, prayed for, all she has hoped for, was taken from her.

"I've tried to fight this decision," Zhalenn added bitterly, "but I was overruled. This has to be done, Lúthienn. You have to sacrifice yourself – for the good of Minbar."

Lúthienn nodded, almost absent-mindedly. This was too much to take at once, too hard, too cruel. "When…?" she finally asked.

"Neroon has already left for Tuzanor," Zhalenn answered simply. "The betrothal ceremony will take place in two days."

The girl blinked, shaking her head at the news. "So soon?" she whispered.

Zhalenn nodded solemnly. "The sooner the voices of dissatisfaction are silenced, the better for our people. But I made it adamantly clear that you shall not leave the Temple until you reach legal maturity. This is your home – you have nowhere to go. And the marriage cannot be consummated as long as you are under-age."

"But I shall not be inaugurated, shall I?" Lúthienn asked, barely audibly. Zhalenn shook her head in sympathy.

"I fear that is no longer possible, child. I am greatly displeased about this, for I am certain that your destiny would lie elsewhere, but I cannot do anything to stop this from happening."

Lúthien nodded, her young heart breaking visibly. A single tear appeared in her eye and rolled down her face slowly.

"I shall do it," she whispered brokenly. "For the sake of our people."

TBC

**End notes:**

(1) According to Hightower's Minbari dictionary, _zhalen_ means "alone". I made a noun out of it, so the name of the _Sal'sataia_ (literally "Mistress", also the Mother Superior) has the approximate meaning "the lonely one". All the other Minbari expressions are from that dictionary.

(2) Female apprentice, the equivalent of a novice.

(3) Female attendant.

(4) In this context: marriage ceremony.

(5) Monastery.

(6) Sexual awakening ( puberty). A word made up by me, using Hightower's dictionary.

**The structure of the Temple of Valeria (based on the Trees of the Sohar, from the teachings of the Kabbala):**

1. Malkhut – Knowledge

2. Yeshod – Light

3a. Hod – Patience

3b. Nezah – Sacrifice

4. Tifreth – Glory

5a. Din – Power

5b. Khesed – Mercy

6a. Binakh – Understanding

6b. Chokhmah – Wisdom

7. Kheter – Enlightening

The temples with a suffix "a" are on the left side of the compound, the ones with a suffix "b" on the right side. Temples without a suffix are on the upper and lower peaks of the hexagon.


	4. Chapter 01: Acts of Sacrifice, Part 3

**FLARN MANAGES**

**by Luthienn**

**CHAPTER 1: ACTS OF SACRIFICE** PART 3 

"I am being ordered to do _what_?"

Alyt Neroon of the Star Riders was, unmistakably, furious. Although he would never act disrespectfully towards his Shai Alyt, his voice was trembling with barely-concealed rage, and he had only paused for a second in his pacing back and forth across the meeting room in order to speak.

"You are being _asked_," Shai Alyt Branmer said calmly, "to perform a great service to your caste and to all of Minbar. But the choice is yours."

"By marrying a naïve _Shai'mira_ (1) I have never even met? She was raised in a temple! She will know nothing of life outside prophecy, and sacred texts, and whatever else the Religious caste teach their children."

"Yes, but I have been assured that she is an excellent student."

Neroon slumped into a seat and cradled his face in his hands. "I am not hearing this."

Leaning forward, Branmer addressed him again, this time more seriously. "The Religious caste are offering us a gesture of peace and new life, to recognise our losses during the war and our anger over their surrender order. This is the closest they will come to an apology."

Neroon waved a hand dismissively. "Religious never apologise, not if it would mean admitting we are not so inferior as they all think." Seeing his Shai Alyt's half-amused look, he sighed and added "Not you, of course. But you are a Warrior now."

"If we refuse this offering, we might start a civil war."

"So _they_ suggest this... this insult as a way to atone for their actions, after all we did, after all we sacrificed – and if we do not accept it, then it will be _our_ fault if war breaks out?"

"It is no insult, Neroon. This girl is the Chosen One."

For the first time in many years, Neroon found himself unable to speak. All Minbari, even the Warrior caste, knew of the prophecy concerning the Chosen One. A child born to bring peace to their world, a child who would carry the future of Minbar in her hands, was born? "Are you sure?" he managed to whisper, finally.

"I did not believe it myself, not at first, but the priests I spoke to have confirmed it beyond all doubt. I have the documents here to prove this is true."

Wordlessly, Neroon took the papers from his Shai Alyt's hand and leafed through them. The genealogy, the place and time of birth, the distinctive shape of the blue cerulean patches that radiated from her _dun'ri _(2) – it was all there, as prophesied. "Then why are they giving her away like this?"

"They believe this joining is what the prophecy has called for."

"And is it?"

Branmer sighed, and for a moment Neroon saw such weariness in his eyes, as though he had aged twenty years since the call to war. "I am a Warrior now, as you said. I do not interpret prophecy."

"But you were a high priest of the Religious caste, you know as well as they do what such things mean. Do you believe this?"

"_They_ believe this. And if they believe it, then enough of our caste will believe it to avert civil war. Our caste leaders chose you for this because the Star Riders are the oldest and most respected of the Warrior clans, and because you have spoken out so openly in your disapproval of their surrender order. You can refuse, if you wish, but know that if you do the Religious caste will take it as a rejection of their attempt to make peace. Go and consider this matter in private for a time. I... need to meditate."

Neroon bowed, fist against palm in the ancient Warrior salute, and left without saying another word.

In the darkness of his personal quarters, with only the flickering, unsteady light of candles and the faint sound of the _Ingata_'s engines humming in the distance to distract him, Branmer recalled what Delenn had told him. One of the Grey Council coming to see him in person would have caused a great deal of commotion among his crew, but they did not know who his visitor was. Neither did they know of the history between their Shai Alyt and Satai Delenn. That thought caused a wry smile to flicker across his face for a moment – if any of them knew he had once been so close to a member of the Grey Council, he did not doubt their opinion of him would change.

Too long a time had passed since he last saw Delenn. He had appeared before the Nine after the war ended, demanding to know the reason for the surrender order, but she would not speak to him then or afterwards. Maybe that was best; their last conversation proved beyond all doubt that she would not say why the Grey Council ordered the Minbari to surrender. Not even to him.

At times, when he remembered those lost in the war, he imagined her robed in grey and stood with the other Satai in nine bright circles of light, and he was furious with her for what she had done. At other times – like this one, when only a few hours ago she had been standing before him, and for a moment he could imagine she had never left – he only missed her.

Brushing a gloved hand over his eyes, Branmer reminded himself that he had better things to do than think of such things. He had told Delenn that his Alyt might not agree to the proposed joining, but in truth he did not expect a refusal. Neroon truly did care for their world, and would never wish to see it plunged into civil war. If this joining could prevent that, if this was what the ancient prophecy had foretold, then it should happen.

He wondered what the Sisters of Valeria had told this girl, barely more than a child, about her fate. Would she agree to this? Would she, herself, truly believe it was her calling? It was a great sacrifice, but she would have been raised to think sacrifice was required of her. Words of the prophecy rang through his mind: _Though her soul shall be a guilt offering_ – well, _that_ much was certainly true.

While Delenn would not say so, it was clear that she disapproved of this interpretation of prophecy, although she was prepared to arrange this joining for the sake of Minbar. Was the Religious caste really prepared to give away the Chosen One in this manner? True, she would remain in the Temple until her maturity and would continue in her sacred task, but this was asking so much of her. Neroon did not understand that, yet, and Branmer did not entirely blame him – it would be a great sacrifice for him also – but maybe he would, in time.

_She will carry our sorrows, and by her wounds shall we be healed._ Branmer knew the prophecy as well as any _mir'aal _(3) of his former caste would, and tried to find solace in its words, wishing that he did not have to play a part in what he was increasingly sure was a blasphemy. But it was for the good of Minbar, whether or not it was indeed foretold, and if the Chosen One accepted that then he could not argue with the Religious caste leaders.

And she would accept her fate, of course, as the prophecy told her to. _She shall be oppressed and afflicted, yet she shall not open her mouth. _The poor child, Branmer thought. The poor child.

Neroon knew, even before Branmer dismissed him to think about the matter, what his decision would be. He despised the idea of being forced into a joining, despised even more the knowledge that the Religious caste would hold him and his own caste responsible for refusing to make peace should he refuse, but he could not allow war to break out. Still, he could not bear to agree at first, and so he spent a day avoiding his Shai Alyt by teaching some of the younger crew members the finer points of _denn'bok_ combat.

He waited for Branmer in his office that evening, wincing as he felt his shoulder begin to stiffen and ache under the armour. Several of his trainees had been rather more enthusiastic and talented than he expected, and he was too distracted to block several of their attacks in time. They were learning well, then, although the over-confidence which would inevitably come from doing so well against their Alyt would need to be addressed at another time.

Branmer bowed. Shai Alyts should not usually bow in such a manner to those they outranked, and for a moment Neroon's surprise broke through his pain and bitterness. "Have you made your decision?"

Neroon sighed. "I have. Although I do not wish for this joining, and I very much doubt I ever shall, it is necessary for the sake of Minbar. I agree."

Branmer clapped him on the shoulder, and Neroon tried not to wince again in pain. "Your caste will thank you for this, Neroon."

"And my _intended_ –" he tried his best not to choke on the word, but it was difficult – "will she accept this?"

"She has already given her agreement, although I doubt she ever had any real choice. She is young, still, and will stay in the _Fal'min Mir_ (4) until she is older. I do not think she has ever known a life outside those walls. It is a great sacrifice for her, as well."

"Yes," Neroon said quietly. An emotion he had never expected from this situation had caught him by surprise, and he found himself feeling true pity for this Chosen One. "Yes, I imagine it is."

Notes:

_Shai'mira_ – female acolyte

_Dun'ri_ – headbone

_Mir'aal_ – high priest

_Fal'min Mir_ – temple


	5. Chapter 01: Acts of Sacrifice, Part 4

**FLARN MANAGES**

**by Luthienn**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue. The idea of Rastenn (from the Season 5 Babylon 5-episode "Learning Curve") being Neroon's nephew was borrowed from Soledad's story "Still Not in Kansas" – I hope she doesn't mind. The _Nafak'cha_ follows the ceremony seen in "The Parliament of Dreams".

* * *

**CHAPTER 1: ACTS OF SACRIFICE**

**PART 4**

Less than a week after the decision of the Grey Council, Alyt Neroon and his escort arrived in the ancient city of Tuzanor. He came with a small group of close friends, as his biological family had been dead for cycles. His only blood-relative still alive was Rastenn, his young nephew, the son of his beloved sister Irilenn, who had died aboard the Black Star.

Despite his tender age, Rastenn had been invited to the betrothal ceremony, as to date he was Neroon's heir. He was accompanied by his father, Katell, a highly respected member of the Worker Caste and the head of the guild of the City Builders. The others were fellow warriors from the Star Riders clan, males and female alike.

In the entrance of the Temple of Malkhut, _Sal'sataia_ Zhalenn was waiting for them, wearing the formal clothing of her office, and on her side stood Satai Rathenn, since the death of Lenonn unofficially responsible for the Anla'shok, in the robes of a High Priest – which he had been, ever since Branmer had given up that position. They both bowed to Neroon and his escort deeply, and the warriors returned the formal greeting, albeit a little more stiffly.

"In the name of the Order of Valeria, I welcome you in the Temple of Malkhut," _Sal'sataia_ Zhalenn said formally. "All is prepared for the ceremony – please enter the Temple and join the other guest in the ceremonial chamber. Satai Rathenn has offered to celebrate the _Nafak'cha_ personally, wih the assistance of Satai Delenn – we are all honoured by the offer." But her eyes were cold as ice, and Neroon knew that she would never forgive either him or the Grey Council for the sacrifice forced upon the Order.

Then she stepped aside without a further word, allowing them entrance into the Temple of Knowledge.

The ceremonial chamber, usually the place for meditation for the novices in their first cycle in the service of Valeria, had been prepared beautifully for this most important ceremony, the key for the peace of Minbar. White garlands of _Fara_, the holy flower of Valeria, adorned the walls, scented _Cha'ardmin_, white ceremonial candles manufactured by the Sisters themselves, burned in groups, the numbers of which had a secret meaning known to the anointed ones only, and on the low, altar-like table of white marble there stood a silver pitcher with holy water and a small casket with the red _nefak_ berries, the most important requisites for the ceremony.

The witnesses were waiting already, standing in a loose circle. Due to the importance of this betrothal, there were more celebrities than Neroon had seen on one place in his entire life. He recognized Satai Hedronn and Morann from the Warrior Caste and Satai Khadiri, the only one of the Nine that had been born Warrior Caste but followed the Religious calling of her heart. There were Sech Durhan and Sech Turval, Neroon's drill masters of old, and there was Kadroni, clan leader of the Faithful Hearts, known for her prophetic dreams. In the background young novices of the Temple stood, playing on their ritual lutes, bells and drums.

"Where is her family?" Neroon asked, still not quite willing to speak the name of his soon-to-be wife.

'They have not come," Branmer answered in regret. "Out of protest against the Council's decision that had cost Lúthienn the calling of her heart, they disowned their daughter. She has no other home than the Order."

Neroon shook his head in disgust. "Religious zealots. How could they do this to their own child?"

"She would have been as dead for them after her inauguration anyway," Branmer answered with a sigh. "The Sisters usually stand above the bonds of blood."

"But if she has no family here, who will stand with her?" Neroon frowned. "The _Nafak'cha_ won't be valid without the blessings of her father."

"Master Draal will act in place of Lúthienn's father," Branmer said. "He agreed to adopt her. The documents have already been signed and registered in Yedor."

Neroon nodded. That made sense, especially knowing the high respect Master Draal enjoyed within the Religious Caste.

"So, where are they then?" he asked, impatient to get over with the whole thing.

"In the adjoining room, I assume," Branmer answered with a shrug. "It is custom that the father would give his child some last-minute advice. Especially in a situation like this."

In the waiting room, adjoining the ceremonial chamber, Master Draal watched his young charge in sympathy. He was glad that _Sal'sataia_ Zhalenn insisted on keeping the girl in the Temple until her legal maturity. Lúthienn was much too young an innocent to be handed over to a harsh, cold-hearted warrior like Neroon right now.

"I shall be beside you the entire time, as I am acting in place for your family," he said, laying a reassuring hand upon the girl's fragile shoulder. "You need not to worry; you have gone through _Nafak'cha_ twice already. Once when you began your service as an acolyte and once when you have been accepted as an apprentice. This will not be very different from those times."

Lúthienn smiled a little at the assurance, grateful for the support even though her lips trembled. "I don't want to embarrass _Sal'sataia_ Zhalenn by making a mistake… or showing any weakness," she answered worriedly. "I know that I must be strong when facing… _him_."

"No one will think that you are weak," Draal promised. "All the witnesses know this was unexpected for you – and hurried. You are familiar with the ceremony, so there will be no mistakes, I am certain of that. But even if there were any, no judgement would be passed. There all know of the great sacrifice they are asking from you, and they respect you greatly for your obedience. You will bring honour to your clan, your Caste and your Order."

"I shall try everything in my humble powers to do so," Lúthienn answered, casting her eyes down. Draal patter her small, cold hand.

"That is all anyone can ask, daughter mine. Are you ready now to face your fiancé?"

Lúthien nodded, slowly, determinedly. "Yes, father, I am ready."

"Then let us go, daughter," Draal took her hand and led her through the hidden door to the ceremonial chamber.

Satai Rathenn was standing before the altar already, with _Sal'sataia_ Zhalenn on his left and Satai Delenn on his right. All three wore the _Obran'ver_, the white outer robe required on ceremonies like this over their clothing, their faces shrouded by the wide hoods, but Lúthienn recognized them nevertheless. How could he not? She had known Rathenn and Zhalenn all her life, and she had been told earlier that Delenn would be the third to celebrate the bonding ceremony.

Facing them stood two warriors, wearing black uniforms and the full regalia of their rank and Caste. One of them she recognized as Shai Alyt Branmer, from the time when he had still been the High Priest, way back before the war had forced him to become a warrior. The other one had to be Neroon, then; for the moment Lúthienn refused to look at him directly. Behind the two warriors a third person stood, in the civilian robes of the Warrior Caste – the telepath, assigned to verify that both parties were accepting the bonding on their own free will.

Neroon eyed the young woman, chosen by the Council to be his bondmate, warily. She seemed young, much too young, barely more than a child, and delicate, even for one of the Religious Caste. Her bonecrest ridges were fragile like frozen water, and the cerulean patches on her small head had the rare pattern of the Chosen One – a pattern that only appeared once in a thousand cycles. Her lips, pale red like the petals of that flower humans called a rose, trembled slightly, but her wide eyes, the most incredibly blue ones anyone had ever seen on Minbar, were now looking determinedly at the harsh-faced warrior whom she would marry for the good of Minbar and for the sake of her Caste.

For a moment Neroon didn't know if he should pity her or admire her. There she was, half his size, half his age, and yet ready to face him and deal with him, no matter what. He only wished that she wouldn't be so young. It seemed somehow… not right.

The chiming of the bells interrupted his thoughts, and he could smell the incense added to the candles, as Satai Rathenn raised his voice slightly, beginning the ceremony.

"We have gathered hear today to witness a joining the like of which has not happened since the days of Valen. It was our tradition, long ago, that after the war between two clans or castes was over, each side would give one of its own to the other in marriage. The victorious side gave a female of its clan to the one that lost, that suffered the most deaths, as a symbol of life and hope. Following this ancient custom, the Religious Caste is now about to give away Lúthienn of the Faithful Hearts to become the mate of Neroon of the Star Riders, Alyt of the Warrior Caste. The joining petition has been officially registered and sanctified by the arbitrators in Yedor; it is now valid. And thus I ask you, Alyt Neroon of the Star Riders, do you accept the offer of the Religious Caste?"

Lúthienn glanced up into the cold, dark eyes of the warrior again, not willing to be intimidated by him. Neroon gave her a strange little smile that she could not understand and, to her surprise, answered in Adronato.

"I accept. I shall honour her and treat her with all the dignity and respect my mate is entitled to. I shall protect her and keep her safe from all enemies. I shall do all I can to support her in her sacred task. I do _not_ desire this bonding, but I will enter it of my own free will, for the good of Minbar."

Rathenn cast a questioning look at _Tela'al_ Aalann, and the Warrior Caste master telepath gave a slight nod to confirm the honesty of Neroon's words. So did Kadroni and _Sal'sataia_ Zhalenn. Usually, one telepath was enough to watch over a bonding, but in this particular case it was of utmost importance that the sincerity of both parties got confirmed.

"Lúthienn of the Faithful Hearts, apprentice of the Order of Valeria, do you accept your destiny to become the bondmate of Alyt Neroon and the key of peace between the two Castes?" Rathenn continued, turning to Lúthienn.

"I accept," she replied with obvious sorrow but also with a dignity that, coming from such a young girl, surprised everyone. "I do not desire this bonding either, but I accept it as my duty. I will honour him as my bondmate as duty demands. I will do all I can to bring honour to his House and his Caste. I will follow your orders because of duty, as long as they serve to keep peace upright between our Castes." She turned to look Neroon in the eyes and was now addressing him directly. "But I shall consider this promise no longer valid as soon as you do anything that endangers this peace. Do so, and you will set me free from all promises and duties that bound me to you. This is my only condition."

Neroon inclined his head, clearly impressed. "I accept."

Rathenn looked at _Te'aal_ Aalann again, and the telepath nodded. Kadroni and Zhalenn, too, confirmed the sincerity of the promises given.

"Then let the _Nafak'cha_ begin," Rathenn announced.

Neroon reached out with a black-gloved hand and took Lúthienn's small, pale one, and wished that wearing his glove was not required. They both bowed to the priests, who bowed back. Then Zhalenn stepped forth with the silver pitcher, offering it to Rathenn wordlessly. The High Priest looked at the unlikely couple before him and asked them the traditional question, quoting Valen's words, as it was required during _Nafak'cha_.

"Will you follow me into fire, into storm, into darkness, into death?"

"Yes," they answered, Neroon grimly and loudly, Lúthienn quietly but determinedly. Rathenn dipped two fingers into the pitcher to wet them.

"Then do this in testimony to the one who will follow, will bring death couched into promise of new life, and renewal disguised as defeat." He reached out and touched each of them on the brow, fingers wet with holy water.

The novices in the background began to play an ancient hymn on their lutes. Zhalenn stepped back and switched places with Delenn, who offered the couple the casket with the _nefak_ berries, her compassionate look never leaving Lúthienn's deathly pale face.

"From birth, through death and renewal, you must put aside old things, old fears, old lives," Rathenn declared. "This is your death, the death of flesh, the death of pain – the death of yesterday. Taste of it. And be not afraid – for I am with you to the end of time."

Lúthienn and Neroon reached into the casket, taking a _nefak_ berry and turning to each other, offering it to each other.

"Taste of it," Rathenn repeated. The drums in the background rolled.

Lúthienn swallowed the fruit the warrior held to her lips, almost choking on it. Her fingers dipped into Neroon's mouth along with the accepted fruit. She jerked her hand back as if it had been burnt and cast her eyes down again, wishing to die from embarrassment.

Rathenn bowed. "And so it begins."

Now all that remained to be done was accepting the blessing of the fathers and the ritual kissing. Lúthienn endured the touch of Neroon's lips on her with the last of her strength, then she stepped back, safely out of reach.

"I shall see you again in the fullness of time," she said in an even voice that lacked all emotions.

"I shall be here," the warrior replied with a bow.

Lúthienn accepted the blessing of Master Draal and retreated into the Temple. The guests mingled for a while, exchanging polite phrases that meant nothing, then they left shortly thereafter. Only the Religious members of the Grey Council stayed behind.

"And so it begins," Satai Khadiri repeated. Zhalenn nodded thoughtfully.

"I wonder, though, how it ends," she answered softly.

TBC


	6. Chapter 02: The End of the Line, Part 1

**FLARN MANAGES**

**by Luthienn**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

The condition of the _Vad'id Hael_ is the invention of the highly talented Eirendel. It was first mentioned in her excellent story "A Warrior's Heart". Go and read it!

Also, with Chapter 2 a new storyline begins, starting after the end of the series. The different storylines will swap back and forth and eventually, they will meet. I promise. Rastenn and Tannier are the two Rangers-in-training from the episode "Learning Curve", of course.

Minbari words and expressions are taken from Hightower's dictionary, as always.

* * *

**CHAPTER 2: THE END OF THE LINE PART 1**

**Babylon 5, on the 22nd April 2271 **

Captain Elizabeth Lochley, commanding officer of Babylon 5, was sitting in her office, fighting the never-ending piles of paperwork once again. The six years on this post had not been kind to her; the hard job itself, plus the threatening doom of Earth that had inevitably rubbed off to the human population of the station, had made her age prematurely. Due to regular exercise, her body was still trim and filled out the EarthForce uniform as nicely as ever, but the first grey strains had already appeared in her hair, there were dark bruises under her eyes from the permanent lack of sleep, and her face had acquired a certain… puffy quality that no amount of rigorous dieting could counteract. People said that she was still a pretty woman "for her age" – she hated that addition, knowing all too well that it meant she did not have her usual perfect looks anymore.

Her comm link beeped. She sighed and showed the pile of reports currently under her revision aside. "Lochley."

"Captain, I think you'd better come to customs," the voice of Lt. Corwin, her second-in-command, answered. "The _Excalibur_ has returned."

For a moment, Lochley was too stunned to react. The _Excalibur_ had been on deep space research without a break for the last ten months. As time for Earth was running out, they had doubled, no, tripled their efforts to find a cure for the Drakh Plague. The fact that they were returning now could only mean two things. Either they _had_ found something – or they had given up."

"What is their ETA?" she finally managed to ask.

"In eighty-two minutes," Corwin replied. "There are only two ships before them: a Minbari flyer, bringing the newly-assigned Rangers from _White Star 39_ and a small ship registered to someone with the name of Galen."

Lochley nodded, forgetting momentarily that Corwin couldn't see her. It made sense. She remembered the Technomage from the _Excalibur_'s previous visits. He was a strange person, but again, so was almost everyone who came to Babylon 5, for whatever reason. Apparently, Gideon and the mage had gone separate ways to cover larger territory. She only hoped that at least _one_ of them had been successful.

"Initiate docking procedures," she ordered Corwin. "I'll meet you at Customs in one hour. Alert me if something unexpected happens."

* * *

Zack Allen, Chief of Security on Babylon 5 for the last seven years, could never grow tired of watching the new visitors pass through Customs. The variety of shapes, colours and sounds had always fascinated him, ever since he had first set foot on the station. He sincerely hoped that the cure for the Drakh Plague would be found in time and Earth would be spared, but he didn't want to go home. Babylon 5 had become home for him a long time ago, way back when he was just Garibaldi's aide.

_I'll remain here until they switch off the lights,_ he often said, and though it was said in jest, it was also the truth.

"Minbari vessel _Lumini_ has docked in," his second, Lou Welch, just as determined to go down with the station as he was, reported. "Passengers are coming through."

Zack nodded absent-mindedly and watched as the two young Minbari males, both wearing the traditional Ranger uniform, calmly walked in, with identically blank expressions on their faces. One of them was tall and well-built, with a surprisingly gentle face, the other one smaller and wiry, with noble, elegant features, hands clasped behind his back.

"Identicards, please," Lou Welch said routinely when they reached his duty post. The Rangers handed him the IDs and he pushed them into the control interface. "Anla'shok Tannier from the Faithful Hearts," he read from the control screen, and the taller Minbari nodded. "And Anla'shok Rastenn from the Star Riders. Both assigned to Babylon 5 for temporary duty."

The two nodded again, and Lou Welch handed them back their IDs.

"The Ranger facility is still in Brown Sector, in honour of Marcus Cole, our first resident Ranger," Zack offered the newcomers an electronic notebook with the detailed map of the station. "If you take the core shuttle…"

"Thank you, but this is not our first time on Babylon 5," the taller Minbari, the one named Tannier interrupted politely; he had a surprisingly mild voice for someone of his size. "We've made ourselves familiar with its layout during our first visit."

Zack shrugged. "All right, the only thing you need to do is to check in with Turann, then. He is in temporary change of the Minbari embassy as long as the post is vacant. Welcome to Babylon 5, gentlemen."

The two Rangers thanked him with a bow – Tannier folding his hands in the manner of the Religious Caste, Rastenn pressing both fists to his chest as was the wont of the Warrior Caste – and continued their way to Brown Sector, where the Rangers stationed on Babylon 5 had their quarters.

* * *

Well, to call these tiny sleeping chambers _quarters_ was probably the exaggeration of the century, but since Marcus Cole had had such miserably small and bleak accommodations, every other Ranger felt honour-bound not to have anything better. Minbari were great at traditions, old and new ones alike, and the human Rangers just had to adapt. At least they had a shared bathroom, with vibe showers for the humans, and a somewhat larger room that they used for briefings.

It was this briefing room that the two Minbari visited first. Tannier went straight to the computer panel and entered the password to check the duty raster.

"The others are out on various missions," he told Rastenn. "We have the facility all to ourselves."

"That is good," Rastenn said, his dark eyes flaring shortly. "I feel the need to remove the dirt of the long journey from my skin."

Moments like this often made Tannier wish that he had eyebrows. Humans always managed to express so much by merely moving this particular part of their anatomy upward that there was no need for words…

"Rastenn," he said patiently, "there was no dirt on the _Lumini_, or on the _White Star_, for that matter. They both had been thoroughly cleaned before we started. And we had perfectly clean and comfortable quarters during the whole journey."

Rastenn looked at him with hooded eyes. "I still feel the urge to clean myself. Would you help me apply the cleansing astringent?"

Tannier shook his head in exasperation but felt himself melting under the heated glare of his _Cala'sum_(1) again. "You are looking for trouble, _Da'cal_(2)."

"_Su'rahan, Am'sheal?_(3)" Rastenn murmured. "Who knows when will we have the facility all to ourselves again? We might not get a chance like this again for a long time…"

He reached up, caressing Tannier's sensitive _Othla'dun_(4) with practiced ease, scraping a fingernail gently over the _Ren'helas_(5) on his lover's head. Tannier gave a ragged sigh, grabbed Rastenn's head and captured the smaller man's lips in a bruising kiss.

"All right, _Da'cal_, you have won. Let us retreat to the bathroom."

Rastenn followed eagerly, and soon they were making a show of applying the cleansing astringent on each other's naked skin, touches getting more and more intimate, especially around the cerulean stripe covering the highly sensitive nerve endings along the spine. Rastenn was completely out of control now, the fog of the _Vad'id Hael_(6) clouding his mind, and Tannier dropped to his hands and knees hurriedly, offering his lover the only help that there was for this condition.

"Take what you need, _Da'cal_," he murmured, a little sadly, for despite the love between them, this almost animal need from Rastenn's side always darkened his joy.

Rastenn didn't need any encouragement. With the fierce snarl of a hunting predator, he stormed the gates of his lover and conquered the willing body of Tannier once again.

TBC

* * *

**End notes:**

(1) _Cala'sum_ heart-mate

(2) _Da'cal_ my heart (endearment)

(3) _Am'sheal_ beloved (endearment). The sentence means: Please, beloved.

(4) _Othla'dun_ bonecrest ridges

(5) _Ren'helas_ the cerulean patches on the head of the Minbari, at the roots of the bonecrest

(6) _Vad'id Hael_ Dark Fire of the Soul; the meaning will be explained later. Let me only tell you that it's a very serious condition for a Minbari.


	7. Chapter 02: The End of the Line, Part 2

**FLARN MANAGES**

**by Luthienn**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

Minbari words and expressions are taken from Hightower's dictionary, as always. Some of the enigmatic Galen speech is directly quoted from random episodes.

**CHAPTER 2: THE END OF THE LINE**

**PART 2 **

**Babylon 5, on the 22nd April 2271 **

Captain Elizabeth Lochley reached Customs mere minutes before the _Excalibur_'s arrival. There was no true need for her to come this early, but she was too nervous to concentrate on paperwork right now. She wasn't the only one waiting there, torn between anguish and anticipation – which was understandable. The five-year-delay to ultimate doom was almost exhausted. If no wonder happened, and very soon, mankind would be reduced to the population of Mars, Proxima Three and a few small colonies. And the birthplace of the human race would be lost for them, forever.

She looked around at the tense faces of people waiting at Customs, desperate for good news. She had known most of them for years. They had gone through good times and bad times, yet never before had she seen them so unsettled. Even the always well-balanced Brother Theo looked terribly upset.

"Not upset… frightened," a very clear, almost painfully articulated tenor said behind her. "Which is a dangerous thin, isn't it? Fear makes wise men foolish; we can only hope that, when the need arises, it can make fools wise, for otherwise, what hope could mankind still have?"

Lochley whirled around, alarmed that someone could sneak up at her so close, and her eyes fell on a man clad entirely in back, a man with a bald head, piercing blue eyes and a strange staff in his hand. She recognized him, of course, despite never having talked to him directly.

"Mr. Galen," she said as a way of greeting.

A big, pale hand waved elegantly in the air.

"Oh, just Galen would be enough, Captain," the technomage said with that strange, almost electric gleam in his unnaturally bright eyes that always made people wonder whether he was secretly amused, insane or both.

"All right," Lochley nodded. "What are you doing here, Galen?"

"Nothing," the technomage gave her one of those intense looks that felt as if she'd be x-rayed. "I'm just here. We always have to be somewhere. This place seemed to be as good as any."

"I wish I could share your optimism," she muttered, knowing all too well that he was lying, that he knew she knew, and that she could do absolutely nothing about it.

Unexpectedly, the technomage took her hand – without asking first, for which she'd have broken any other man's nose, _including_ the current President of the Interstellar Alliance – and squeezed gently. His fingers were strong, warm and dry, and there was a barely perceptive vibration in them, something akin electricity, due perhaps to the arcane technologies of his craft, integrated directly into his flesh as well as woven into the fabric of his clothes. For a moment, she shivered, imagining how that would feel all over her naked skin, then suppressed the thought ruthlessly. This was not the time for sexual frustration.

"Elizabeth," that strange, almost mechanical voice asked urgently. "Do you no longer believe that this is the place where you belong?"

"I don't know," she replied sullenly. "What if the _Excalibur_ doesn't find the cure at all? Without Earth, we have no goal, no purpose, no reason to be here at all! Here… or in any other place. There _must_ be a solutions, somewhere…"

The technomage looked at her with detached pity – it made her feel like a clueless little girl again. She hated the feeling.

"Your view of life implies a directed universe," he said. "It is tempting to believe an ultimate master plan that could give all our losses a higher sense. But it is a delusion. In your heart, you know as well as I do that there is no planning, no design to our lives."

"If that's what you truly believe, then why do you keep going?" she asked angrily, because how did he _dare_ to crush her hopes, tentative and shaky as they might be. "Why helping Gideon? Why not just give up?"

The patiently pitiful look in those incredible eyes turned into something else – something dark and sinister. Something that made her shiver again, but not in the good way.

"Madam," the technomage said, "You cannot imagine what I have given up already."

With that, he kissed her hand, sending tiny electric shocks through her entire body, and then he turned around with a theatrical whirl of his heavy black cloak and strode out to unknown destinations.

For a moment, Lochley stared after him, utterly bewildered, but soon her attention was redirected to the welcome area, as the arrival of the _Excalibur_'s captain and crew was announced. Their grim faces made abundantly clear that they had not succeeded. Earth was no closer to escape genocide than it had been four years ago.

* * *

Captain Lochley would have been surprised to find out that Galen wasn't going back to his own ship, even though he hadn't requested quarters aboard the station. No, his long, purposeful strides carried him directly to Green Sector, where the ambassadorial quarters were located, with such an easy self-confidence that no one asked him about his business there. He went straight to the now-abandoned quarters of once-Ambassador Delenn, which were kept in their former state, in case some Minbari dignitary would need proper accommodations for a night or two. 

At the moment, the rooms were unoccupied, yet the door opened at his approach soundlessly. Good. That meant his ally had managed to get there unobserved.

Galen entered, leaving the door close behind him. In the now dormant rooms that had once housed the Minbari ambassador, only the BabCom unit was online, glowing barely visible in the near complete darkness. Technomages had night eyes, though, that enabled them to see in the dark like cats, and this Galen could spot the deceivingly slender frame of his collaborator. The dark, unadorned Worker Caste robe made the younger man melt into the darkness of the cabin, only the paleness of his face and hands was visible – and the faint gleam of the viewscreen glittering upon the carved peaks of his bonecrest.

Galen's heart trembled with joy at the sight of his mate – the one he'd found, badly injured, four years ago, whom he'd saved from near-certain death, whom he'd nursed to full health again with endless patience and never-wavering hope. Whom he'd fallen in love with and bound to himself for eternity.

He never thought he would fall in love again. Not after losing Isabella, whom he'd loved with all his heart and soul. Their love had been deeper than anyone could try to imagine, a merging of minds and thoughts and souls, pure and virginal like freshly fallen snow, never spoiled by the desires of flesh. After her death, he'd fallen in darkness, living a bleak life in celibacy and utter solitude, as he couldn't imagine loving anyone else ever again.

Until he'd found the young Minbari in that damaged little ship, heartbroken and tormented by his inner demons, seeking out death to escape his heart-ache and the suffocating weight of his guilt. And Galen whose ideal had always been a chaste, spiritual love to an equal-minded woman, like the one he'd felt for Isabella, discovered in the deep recesses of his heart that while _that_ place would belong to his lady, forever, he was, indeed, capable of a different kind of love for this desperate, brave and gentle soul – and didn't hesitate to reach out the unexpected gift.

Just as he reached out now to take his mate by the shoulders and to greet him with a kiss that was everything but chaste. It had been too long since he could taste those soft, delectable lips.

"You are here," it was a simple enough statement but filled with triumph. Despite the constant scheming of a malevolent, utterly chaotic universe, they were together once again.

And he who'd once been Lennier, priest of the Third Fame of Chu'domo, and later Anla'shok Lennier, considered lost and killed by all his former friends, returned Galen's kiss with equal devotion, having finally found the place where he truly belonged.

"You called," he replied simply.

Galen nodded and traced the outline of the cerulean patches seaming Lennier's bonecrest with his fingertips, sending little shocks of sharp pleasure through the Minbari's body. His brethren would frown, did they know he used their elaborate technology for such mundane reasons, but he didn't care. All he cared about was the task at their hands – and the most satisfying reunion that was to follow.

"Do you have the codes?" he asked.

Lennier endured his touch with total acceptance, not arching into it but not flinching away from the almost-painful, tiny shocks either, not demanding more than what was freely given. Only the dilating of his dark eyes revealed his pleasure.

"I do," he said. "But are you certain that this would help, _Da'cal_? I grant you, Valen's Prophecy about the Chosen One _can_ be interpreted the way you do, but what if you are mistaken? The scientist of Earth have worked for all those years on a cure and found nothing. Captain Gideon has looked for a cure just as long, and not even with your help could they find anything. What do you still hope for?"

"It has been my experience, that when one door is closed, another one would open," Galen replied. "Was it not how I found you? We are technomages – we wield both technology and magic. I have exhausted all sources of technology that were at my disposition; now I shall turn to magic to find an answer."

"And you believe there is one?" Lennier asked doubtfully.

Galen sighed. "I have helped Matthew to choose his targets, and it did not help. Now I have to choose mine, and pray with all your heart that I pick the right one. Because we'll only get one shot in this."

"_We_?" Lennier repeated with a faint smile. "What am I doing in this?"

"You keep my heart alive," Galen said. "Now, give me those codes – it's time I contacted some higher powers. Assuming there are any out there."

Lennier keyed the codes for a secured diplomatic channel wordlessly, so that the receiving person would think the message had come from Delenn herself, and then he watched Galen creating it with the virtuosity of a concert piano player. Only that it didn't contained of melodies but of a series of rapidly changing images and whirling colours, with nothing than gibberish half-words and broken half-sentences. It had an almost hypnotic effect, making one feel that it only took a minute or so, but Lennier's inner clock told him that it lasted almost half an hour.

He had only seen a message like that once before, but he knew it was needed for the electron incantation, so that Galen could later call the receiver of it to himself through space. Sometimes the abilities of his mate almost frightened him. And yet, he would never give up this man, now that he'd found him… or, to be more accurate, that he'd been found _by_ him.

"Well," Galen said brightly, shutting off the ambassadorial BabCom unit, "my work here is done. Let us leave this place."

"What now?" Lennier asked, following him obediently and hiding his face under his wide hood.

"Now we wait," Galen told him. "On my ship, where nobody can find you. And I have an astounding idea how we should spend the time of waiting."

"Oh?" Lennier raised a hairless eyebrow. "What could _that_ possibly be?"

"It depends," Galen stared at him intently, and Lennier had no doubts that the mage could see him in the shadows of his hood just as clearly as he would in the brightest sunlight. "What are you willing to give me?"

"Everything you want," Lennier answered simply. "Everything I am."

"In that case," Galen laid a possessive hand on the small of the Minbari's back, "I shall take _everything_."

TBC

_Da'cal_ my heart, an endearment between lovers


	8. Chapter 02: The End of the Line, Part 3

**FLARN MANAGES**

**by Luthienn**

**Author's notes:**

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

Minbari words and expressions are taken from Hightower's dictionary, as always. By the description of the _Va'did Hael_ I followed Eren's lead who'd created this condition in the first place.

**CHAPTER 2: THE END OF THE LINE**

**PART 3**

**Babylon 5, on the 22nd April 2271 **

When Rastenn and Tannier reached the MedLabs for their physical, they walked into a loud and heated argument between Babylon 5's former CMO, Dr. Franklin – who, due to the fact that he was a Drakh virus carrier, had been living in one of the IsoLabs for the last three years – and Dr. Chambers, the CMO of the _Excalibur_. The latter one was a tall, athletic, dark-skinned and raven-haired woman, towering even over Tannier – and not only very pretty but also known to have a mean right hook.

She was currently yelling at Dr. Franklin through the intercom unit, as he couldn't have heard her through the isolating glass wall that had become his prison in defence of the uninfected inhabitants of Babylon 5. As far as Tannier could figure out – medical jargon wasn't exactly his forte, especially not _human_ medical jargon – they had some disagreement concerning a possible cure for the Drakh plague. The scene was neither new nor surprising, wherever Earth doctors were having a discussion. As time grew short, human medical researchers were growing increasingly desperate.

Noticing the two young Minbari, Dr. Chambers interrupted her scientific argument with her voluntarily imprisoned colleague.

"Gentlemen? Can I do something for you?"

"We are looking for Dr. Hobbs," Tannier told her. "We have been newly assigned to Babylon 5 and need medical clearance."

"I see," she gave his large bulk an appreciating look, which made Rastenn growl softly but warningly. Tannier shot his lover a slightly alarmed look; Rastenn's increasing jealousy could reveal their secret before the worst possible people.

Fortunately, Dr. Chambers didn't seem to realize what was going on.

"Well," she said. "Dr. Hobbs has gone to consult the Great Machine on Epsilon 3 – a rare privilege that she wouldn't let slip from her hands. But I'm more than capable of performing a routine physical, if that's okay with you."

The two Minbari exchanged looks, and then Tannier nodded. Maybe it was even better to have a strange doctor examine them, one who would leave the station shortly afterwards. _Vad'id Hael_ could leave certain… traces in the affected person's body chemistry, unless very recently satisfied. And their joining had been more than two hours ago.

"That is acceptable," he said, and Dr. Chambers went on to make the routine examinations.

As expected, there was nothing unusual with Tannier himself – he wasn't the one affected by the madness, after all. But when making Rastenn's blood analysis, Dr. Chambers frowned.

"That's odd… Stephen, would you mind check these results? I've examined Minbari before but never seen a chemical imbalance like this."

Tannier suppressed a groan. Now they had walked into a trap with no way out. Dr. Franklin was known to have hijacked across half of the Galaxy to study alien species and was the leader of the Xenobiology Institute on Earth. There was no way they could make him believe that everything was all right with Rastenn.

Well, he always could _try_, of course.

"I assure you, Doctor, there is no need for that. Rastenn is completely healthy, just like myself."

The formidable woman gave him a scolding look. "I always thought Minbari didn't lie, Ranger Tannier."

"Not unless they're protecting the honour of someone else," Franklin corrected. "And in this case, I think, he's got every reason for lying through his teeth."

"What do you mean?" Dr. Chambers frowned. "Have you seen readings like that before?"

"Oh, yes, I have," Franklin said grimly. "During the Earth-Minbari war, I was called to examine a prisoner. He'd been captured in a small fighter, his co-pilot killed in that fight. His body chemistry had the same imbalance, just on a much higher scale."

"What happened to him?" Dr. Chambers asked. Franklin shook his head in regret.

"He died within days. But before that, he'd gone completely mad… and I mean _really_ mad, growling and snarling and spitting mad… like an animal. Shredding his clothes, beating his fists bloody on the brig walls, scratching himself until he had ugly, bleeding wounds all over his body… it was a terrible sight. To the date, I still have no idea what might have happened to him."

The two Minbari exchanged one of those meaningful looks again – and then Rastenn shrugged.

"Tell him," he said. "We both knew this might happen someday. It is better it happened here than at home."

Tannier sighed. "As you wish, _Am'sheal_." He turned to Franklin gravely. "Doctor, can we hope that all we are going to tell you will _not_ find its way into any official records?"

Franklin hesitated. "I'm not sure I can promise that. I can promise doctor-patient confidentiality, but we should have a record about a condition this potentially lethal, for future treatment."

Tannier shook his head. "There is no possible treatment for one afflicted with _Vad'id Hael_, doctor," he said sadly.

"Afflicted with _what_?" Dr. Chambers asked with a frown, never having heard the expression before.

"The _dark fire of the soul_," Franklin, who spoke a passable Adronato and even some Vik, translated for her. "Apparently, it must be some mental condition… with devastating physical results. The affect of a Minbari's mental state on their physical bodies is much stronger than it would in a human."

Tannier nodded. "That is correct, doctor. In this particular case, the condition is caused by the afflicted person falling in love with someone who's out of his or her reach, either because of oaths or because they are bonded with someone else. Usually, it is just a burden that we have to bear; a sorrow of soul and heart. But sometimes that burden of the heart becomes a sickness of the mind. And when the mind of a Minbari is weakened, the body follows its fall."

Franklin stared at him incredulously. "I always thought that only Tolkien's Elves could die of a broken heart." Tannier had learned enough about humans to know that the doctor was only trying to hide his shock with that lame joke. He continued, ignoring the interruption.

"And what is the worst thing in this entire misery, the inflicted one dies insane, with no knowledge of who or what they are, not even understanding the pain that is killing them, the lack that their soul mourns. Just like that prisoner you have tried to treat during the war. The co-pilot killed must have been his _sus'te sum_ – the one his soul needs – and he simply could not survive without her… for I assume we are speaking of a mixed couple."

"I know nothing about the co-pilot," Franklin answered, "but the pilot was male, yes."

Tannier nodded. "It is a condition unique to the Warrior Caste, and usually it only afflicts males. When it is diagnosed, the person the patient loves to the point of loosing himself – the one he needs for survival – is found and any possible hindrances are removed from the way of their joining. This bond, this love beyond measure is the only thing that can dissolve even the marriage of a _Satai_ – a member of the Grey Council," he added, seeing the blank looks of the humans," or the oaths of a Sister of Valeria. This bond is considered above all other oaths."

Franklin, more familiar with Minbari customs than Chambers, digested the information for a while.

"I understand," he finally said. "What I _don't_ understand, though, is why you need to keep Rastenn's condition in secret? You've said yourself that it's something that's accepted and that the afflicted person is given every possible help to save his life."

"It _is_ accepted, or at the very least tolerated, when the _Vad'id Haelir_'s… obsession is directed at a person of the opposite gender," Tannier explained grimly. "Between two males, however, or – what's even more rare, between two females – it is considered an abomination. The… lovers revealed having such a relationship would be outcast and exiled… together, when they are very fortunate. Sent to different penal colonies, if the judges are feeling cruel."

"They'd let him die, insane and dishonoured and in great pain, just because he's in love with a man?" Dr. Chambers asked, incredulously. "Even on Earth, same-gender marriages are accepted and legal, have been for more than two centuries, and God knows, our people aren't the most tolerant ones in the known Galaxy. How could such an old culture as the Minbari be this… bigot?"

She was positively fuming, and while Tannier found her criticism of Minbari culture a bit harsh – not to mention disrespectful – somehow it felt good to have at least one person's unconditional support. Franklin, however, had a deeper insight into Minbari traditions.

"Very old cultures can be way too settled in their customs, Sarah," he said. "And don't forget that the Minbari are a diminishing race. Birth rates have been dangerously low, for quite some time. It's understandable that they would ban anything that could keep them from having offspring, and same-gender relationships are as a rule _not_ fertile. Certainly not among Minbari, who would consider using a sperm donor or a surrogate mother cheating on their mate."

Tannier nodded. "That is correct, Dr. Franklin. Additionally, the… physical joining, which is the only way to restore the sanity of the afflicted one," he added with a blush, "leads to a conditioning. The _Vad'id Haelir_ becomes… well, the best word would be 'imprinted', so that no one else but his _sus'te sum_ can save him. This imprinting must also be renewed frequently for him to survive; therefore his partner must always remain close to him. And when his mate dies, there will be no rescue for him."

Franklin looked at them intently from behind the glass wall. "And you're the one who keeps Rastenn alive, aren't you."

"He is," Rastenn spoke for the first time since Tannier had launched into the long and embarrassing explanation. "He is my _Cala'sum_, my heart mate. I cannot live without him. I do not _wish_ to live without him."

"But how can you always get the same assignments?" Franklin asked. "As far as I know, Rangers aren't asked where they want to serve."

"We are not," Rastenn agreed. "But in this one, we were fortunate. Tannier's sister used to be married to Alyt Neroon, who is my uncle, thus we are considered family. And members of the same family _can_ ask for shared assignments, as they usually work better together, and it is a given that they would not betray each other, no matter what the price."

"Neroon?" Franklin repeated in mild shock. "you're the nephew of _Neroon_?"

Rastenn nodded, his young face mirroring a strange mix of sadness and pride.

"Yes, I am honoured to be closely related to one of the greatest warriors ever," he said. "The more must our… indiscretion be kept in secret, though. It would soil Neroon's memory, who sacrificed himself for the peace of Minbar. The fact that I have pulled one of the Religious Caste into this abomination – and one of the elder _Minsa_ at that – would not be taken kindly."

"Because he's male?" Dr. Chambers asked.

"Because he is the only one in whom his bloodline could continue," Rastenn replied, "and his choice to save me has sentenced his _Minsa_, the Faithful Hearts, to extinction."

"But what about his sister, your… aunt?" Dr. Chambers apparently had difficulties bringing those two terms together. "Doesn't _she_ have any children?"

Rastenn shook his head. "No. Theirs was a political marriage, right after the end of the Earth-Minbari war, designed by the Nine themselves, to maintain the fragile peace between our _Min'aia_… our Castes," he translated for the humans. "They went through the _Fornor Fal kas'zha Mer'cha_…"

"The _what_?"

"The public lovemaking ritual," Tannier explained. "It is an ancient tradition that had fallen out of use centuries ago, save some extremely important bonds where the good of the entire Minbar is concerned."

"Public… lovemaking…" Dr. Chambers was too shocked for coherent speech.

Tannier nodded. "As I said, it had fallen out of use long ago. But sometimes a bonding is of such great importance that the nine witnesses, representing each Caste, are needed to prove that the marriage has indeed been consummated. The ritual is performed in a specially prepared room, adjoining the family temple, right after the _Nafak'cha_. The witnesses watch it through a transparent screen, remaining in darkness."

Dr. Chambers shuddered. "That's really… disturbing. And your sister went through that thing voluntarily?"

"She did," Tannier answered solemnly, "because Valen's peace was at risk. But to my knowledge, Neroon never touched her again after that. She lived in seclusion in the Temple of Valeria all her life, and after Neroon's death she rejoined the Sisters fully."

"So, this bond of yours would mean the end of both bloodlines, right?" Franklin asked, starting to understand the ramifications.

"It will certainly end mine," Rastenn answered. "But should I die first, Tannier would be free to seek a more… suitable mate and continue his yet."

Tannier gave him a fondly exasperated look.

"I do not wish you dead," he said simply.

"I know," Rastenn said, his eyes unnaturally gentle. "It would be easier for everyone, though."

"Not for me," Tannier stated. "It is true, I entered this bond out of necessity – because I did _not_ want you dead, you fool, But now that we have been bound for many cycles, I no longer wish to be with another mate. You are my _Cala'sum_, just as I am yours, and I would not want it any other way."

"But no others must know of this," Rastenn said, giving the two human doctors a pledging look. "Our honour – and our life – is in your hands, _Hela'mer_. No written records. Please."

Franklin sighed. He could well understand a death sentence hanging over someone's head; he'd one hanging above his own. Plus, he was a born romantic, and the tale of such a desperate love touched him deeply.

"Well, Dr. Chambers," he said, "can we bend the rules just a little?"

Sarah Chambers shrugged. "I'm not the official head of the MedLabs here anyway, so what the hell? Besides, I assume if I'd taken these readings right after you've… done what needs to be done, the results would be completely normal, wouldn't they?"

Tannier nodded. "That is correct, _Hela'mer_."

"Then we'll all pretend you've come here earlier and everything was perfectly all right," she said. "You can go now; I'll file away a clean bill of health… for both of you."

The two Rangers bowed – Tannier with folded hands, Rastenn with both fists pressed against his chest.

We are in your debt," Tannier said.

The lady doctor waved him off. "None of that, guys. True love is such a rare thing in these days; once found, it needs to be protected."

And there was infinite sadness in her dark, jewel-like eyes as they briefly rested upon the tired face of Stephen Franklin.

TBC

_Minsa_ clan

_Hela'mer _ healer


	9. Chapter 02: The End of the Line, Part 4

**FLARN MANAGES**

**by Luthienn**

**Author's notes: **For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Prologue.

Lt. Matheson's background is completely made up by me. I used the name of the actor who plays him, for the simple reason because I find it pretty (the name… actually, I find the actor pretty, too, but that's another bowl of flarn entirely.)

_Kimi_ is a Japanese endaerment and means "dearest", or so I was told. If it's false, I apologize.

**

* * *

**

CHAPTER 2: THE END OF THE LINE 

**PART 4 Babylon 5, on the 22nd April 2271**

John Matheson, First Officer of the legendary ship _Excalibur_, could barely wait to go off-duty and get out of that stupid uniform specifically designed for the crew in the first year of the search for a cure for the Drakh virus. Captain Gideon had been right: the uniform not only made them look like bellboys, it was also extremely uncomfortable. Sometimes John longed for the traditional black uniform worn by the crew of exploratory vessels. It was practical, comfortable and simple – all things he highly valued in life.

Like most telepaths, he was a solitary being and didn't like to stand out of any crowd. On this day, however, he felt the uncommon urge to visit the Zocalo, the trade and entertainment sector of Babylon 5. It was strange, but he could no longer ignore it. It had been on his mind during the long duty shift, unshakably.

Just like the image of a woman playing a silver flute that wouldn't go away. He could clearly hear the music – something classical – in his mind.

He wondered if this was the way some other telepath tried to contact him. After the Telepath War, after the dissembling of the Psi Corps, it was hard to tell who was a teep and who wasn't. If one had strong enough shields, one could ever fool a fellow mind-reader.

John made sure that _his_ shields were firmly set before he left the ship to get to the station. He was wearing civilian clothes off-duty and didn't want to be identified – _marked!_ – for what he was. He hadn't _chosen_ to be born as a telepath, after all. It was his gift or his curse, depending on the beholder's point of view, something he hadn't asked for and couldn't change.

He wasn't sure he'd _want_ to change it, even if he could. On the one hand, his… _nature_ enabled him the experience of hyperspace in a way no mundane could ever hope to experience it. That was a gift he wouldn't give up easily. On the other hand, the very same nature had made him an outsider in human society. He'd never be accepted by the mundanes, no matter what. Even his uniform wore the distinguishing Y mark. Even Captain Gideon, who called himself his friend, gave him that speculative look sometimes. As if secretly asking himself whether the telepathic XO could really be trusted.

John hated this. All he ever wanted was to _belong_, but he had to realize that despite all those years of faithful duty aboard the _Excalibur_, he still _didn't_ belong. Not really. Not where the human crew was considered anyway. The only resident alien, Dureena, didn't care, and Galen was an outsider himself – but they weren't the ones John would have liked to consider _his_ people.

Those would be the humans. The mundanes, to be more accurate, as he was barely tolerated among his own kind. The very few who knew about his part in destroying the Psi Corps, acknowledged what he'd done, but they couldn't understand why he hadn't joined "the Case" afterwards. They couldn't understand that he didn't care for "the Case" – for _any_ cases at all. All he ever wanted was to be _free_ – to go to the stars, to explore the unknown depths of the universe.

He got his wish, against all hopes. But it hadn't made him any less lonely. It hadn't ended his painful isolation. In the end, he was still just a teep in his crewmates' eyes. A mind-reader, from whom they wanted to hide their little secrets. And avoiding him was the easiest way to do so.

As the end of humanity – at least on Earth – drew near, John sometimes caught himself weighting his options. He had searched the darkest, most hidden corners of the known universe for the last five years. He'd seen many things, both horrible and awesome ones, and now he felt like changing his life. Would be remaining aboard the _Excalibur_ the right thing to do? What would become of them after Earth had turned into one gigantic cemetery anyway? Where could they find a new home? Would the successor of the EarthForce, whatever it might turn out to be, still tolerate him as the only telepath serving aboard one of their ships?

There _were_ other opportunities. John had been thinking of the Rangers more and more lately. They had telepaths – granted, _Minbari_ telepaths, but still telepaths – among them, people said. And as a trained EarthForce officer, John had a reasonable chance to succeed in the additional Rangel training as well. Could there be a place for him among the Rangers?

_I really don't think so, Kimi_, the mental voice of a woman answered inside his head.

He whirled around in alarm, realizing that his meanderings had brought him to the Japanese stone garden of the station. The one set up by Commander Sinclair in the very first year of Babylon 5. It was still intact, and an excellent place to be along with one's thought. Instinct must have steered his steps right here.

That, or the mental call of the woman who was standing at the far end of the garden, wearing an old-fashioned EarthForce uniform: the kind that had been regular around the time Babylon 5 was built. She was slender and clearly of Asian origins, her long, shining hair swept forth over her left shoulder like a glimmering curtain. On her uniform, she wore the insignia of a lieutenant commander.

John recognized her smooth, ageless face. She was the woman who'd haunted his dreams for months by now. The woman playing the silver flute.

"Who _are_ you?" he asked. "What do you want from me?"

"You don't remember?" she asked. Her voice was soft and high-pitched like that of a child – deceivingly so. Her dark, almond eyes were cold like the hostile depths of space.

John shook his head apologetically. "I don't think so…"

"We've met on Mars," she interrupted. "I visited the base on Syria Planum when you were just a young whelp of the Psi Corps."

He looked at her searchingly but could still not remember. Suddenly, however, something touched a blockade he'd been previously unaware of in his mind, and now he saw her as she had been – as she _really_ – had been back there: in the black uniform and gloves of the Psi Cops that she hadn't worn again since then.

"Agent Takashima," he whispered. She used to have quite the reputation among young Psi Cops. John had never been one of those, but he interned with them… not voluntarily, but at that time, in his naïveté, he'd actually found it an honour to be chosen as a liaison of the actual cops. Takashima had been said to be the best and most ruthless undercover agents masquerading as a mundane.

"_Lieutenant Commander_ Takashima," she corrected. "I hadn't always been what I am now. For a long time, my abilities had been suppressed, without my knowledge, so that I could play the mundane soldier convincingly. I didn't even known I _was_ a telepath until I got reassigned from Babylon 5 to Earth."

Such things hadn't been rare in those years. John had heard about such agents. _How_ the Corps managed to suppress their abilities for years, he didn't even want to guess. Some of them had gone mad, because they were too strong to be suppressed on the duration. Those who'd managed to keep their sanity, somehow, became monsters and got the hardest, most dangerous assignments, because they didn't really care for anyone any longer. Including themselves.

"You'd been sent here to have Commander Sinclair killed!" John realized with horror.

"No," she said. "I was sent here to get the _Vorlon_ killed. Getting rid of Sinclair would have been an additional bonus."

"How could you? He was your friend!" John cried out.

Just as Gideon had been _his_ friend for many years. Even though they questioned each other's motivation sometimes. Even if they kept secrets from each other.

Takashima shook his head, and there was something akin regret on her emotionless face.

"No," she said. "He was _Laurel's_ friend. The Laurel's who worked at Mars Colony Security and refused to let herself get corrupted in order to get a promotion. _That_ Laurel died on Babylon 5. I'm all that's left – and I'm not her. I'll never be again."

"Who… _what_ are you then?" John asked with morbid fascination.

She measured him with those cold eyes of hers. "Do you know what _Control_ is?"

John nodded, shivering. "An implanted alternate personality that can be activated by a telepathically sent password. While dormant, it could act without the host even knowing about its actions."

"In the first year of Babylon 5, _I was_ the one harbouring the Control personality planted on the station," Takashima said. "_I was_ the one who helped the assassin getting aboard. But when the attempt to kill the Vorlon failed, I was reassigned to the Rim."

"Why?" John frowned. "It wasn't your fault."

"That's true," she replied, "but once Control is activated, the original personality is destroyed. Sinclair and Garibaldi would have realized that they weren't dealing with the old Laurel anymore.. Besides, I was needed for the duty on the Rim."

"What duty?" John asked, expecting the worst.

"Looking out for the Shadows," seeing John's shocked face, she nodded grimly. "Yes, the brass of the Corps had known about the Shadows, long before the Minbari War. But we hoped to figure out how to control their technology before they actually made their move. The only way to spot them is telepathy, as you know."

"Yes, but why did the Corps want to kill the Vorlon?" John still wasn't getting it. "Weren't the Vorlons the enemies of the Shadows?"

"They were," she answered. "And they've created _us_ to be their cannon fodder. To fight their war for them – for both sides. Lyta Alexander wasn't the first one to figure them out. Some of us – the likes of Jason Ironheart, who'd grown beyond their original destiny – were able to tap into our collective memory. We've learned long ago that we could be vital for the functioning of Shadow technology… or the destruction of it. Plans how to bend it to our will had been made. We'd have been able to infiltrate their ships and to destroy them from the inside… eventually. We've already made considerable progress. Had Sinclair, Sheridan and the other do- gooders not interfered. _Or_ that old sadist Edgars. But we've dealt with Edgards, and given enough time, we'd eventually have dealt with the Shadows, too."

"_We_?" John repeated suspiciously. She nodded.

"When the blockade has been lifted, my true abilities resurfaced," she said. "I'm a P12. Dealing with the awakened senses was brutal, and the Control personality took some damage. A lot of damage, actually. My mental distress reached the one who'd once been Jason Ironheart. He came to my aid and removed the rest of the Control personality. For a while, my mind was completely blank. I was taken to Minbar, to the Temple of Valeria, where their mind-healers have artificially rebuilt me, as well as it was possible, based on the detailed psych file of the Corps. But great parts of me are still empty… lost. The memories are still there, but I'm completely detached from them. It will take years to become a hale person again… if ever."

"I'm sorry to hear that," John said with a shrug, because that must have been terrible, but he couldn't _really_ feel for her, knowing what he knew about her. "But why are you tell me all this?"

She looked at him with the same, detached pity. "Because you're a sleeper, too," she said simply. "You've been implanted shortly after the rebels destroyed the secret base… due to your compassion. You've been very fortunate that you haven't had a password accident yet. But you could run into someone who knows it, and the person you are now could be gone, forever."

John was petrified with shock. He was a mere P5, nothing special, taken from his mundane parents at the age of four. He didn't even remember them anymore. He had been one of the many raised by the Corps. His abilities were by no means outstanding. Why would the Corps – or whoever had been in charge after the destruction of the Corps – want to make him a sleeper?

"It was the ultimate punishment," Takashima said, reading his unshielded thoughts easily. "Or do you really think the brass hadn't find out what you'd done?"

That, and probably the fact that he'd been the first – and to date still the only – telepath serving on an EarthForce ship. _Of course_ they would want the chance to turn him into a mindless puppet who'd turn against Captain Gideon whenever ordered. And who'd obediently send reports about his Captain's activities, without even knowing it.

His entire world had just been turned upside down and inside out.

"Next you'll tell me that not even my name is my own," he said with a mirthless grin. He meant it as a lame joke, but Takashima was not laughing.

"Actually," she said with a touch of cold pity in her voice, "it's _not_. I've seen your file – your _real_ file – on Mars. Your true name is Daniel Dae Kim. You're the son of Korean-American parents, and you've got at least one sister that we know of. I'm sorry to tell you that they all live on Earth."

Once again, John was frozen with shock. He hadn't thought of his family for a very long time. He'd ceased to ask himself whether they were still alive and what they might look like in the second year in the Corps. Such thoughts had been trained out of one at a very tender age. He'd grown used _not_ to think forbidden thoughts. The only longing the Corps hadn't been able to erase from his mind was that for deeps space.

He wished he hadn't learned about his family now, that there was absolutely no chance to be reunited with them. Ever.

Unless…

"You seem to have great influence," he said to Takashima. "I'm not asking whom you are interned with; I don't really care."

"What are you asking, then?" she riposted.

"For a way to get to Earth," he answered.

TBC


End file.
